Helmet
by Toramo
Summary: It's going to be Arthur's birthday soon and Alfred's got the perfect present. But sometimes things don't go as you planned and some gestures, no matter how kind and genuine, become cruel and useless.


Hello there my pretties, I felt a random urge to write this as I listened to 19 by Adele. So here is the product of my PMS combined with the songs of a British angel. I have to warn you it won't exactly put a spring in your step but oh well, blame mother nature.

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. At all.

* * *

"Here," Arthur stares at the shiny black dome, its smooth surface reflects the street lights like stars on its inky enamel. "Come on, were gonna be late" his gaze shifts up the glove clad hand that grips the front of the visor. Those long fingers that he knew were warm and calloused, so rough and soft. The strip of tanned wrist that peeked out from under the worn cuff of that familiar brown jacket, and that grin. One leg on the ground, propping himself up while the other was slung over a growling chrome and leather beast. Arthur took the helmet and looked back at Alfred skeptically, "Where's yours?"

He slowly approached the other man, careful not to trip over the leaf strewn curb. He hesitated a moment before jumping on the back. Blushing at the proximity and glad that the other man could see him, he would never be able to live it down. "Nah, I only have one, but don't worry. I won't crash, I am a hero after all." He had to turn half around to shot that grin at Arthur, who quickly pulled on the helmet to hide the tell-tale heating of his skin. He was immediately wrapped up in Alfred's scent, motor oil and after shave with something so uniquely Alfred, something that Arthur has come to associate with the sunny young man. "Well aren't you gonna grab on?" Arthur only scowled and gripped the back of the seat, the leather smooth and warm against his sweaty palms. Alfred revved the engine and his laugh and Arthur's scream was drowned out in the roar of the motorcycle as he kicked off the curb and sped into the night. Arthur's arms around his waist tying them together as they cut through the darkness.

* * *

_White, everything was white. His breath came out to fast, and it felt as if a vice was clamped around his head, tightening with every breath. Lights danced over his eyes, flashes of black and red. And the pain, he let out a groan, which seemed to echo through his skull, bouncing off the walls and pounding his brain. He felt hot, smothered. He wanted to cry out, but he had no voice. It was lost in the heat and the pain and the blood. And suddenly it was gone, and the sound was intense. As if everything suddenly came back into focus, the lights that passed so fast overhead like street lamps by the sides of roads while you ride. _

_The clamouring, the shrieking of unoiled wheels and the voices of men and women that held no words, only panic and concentration and desperation. And the pain, the pain was there to. With every jolt he felt it lance up his spine and pierce through his head. He felt every inch of flesh from his finger tips to the skin between his joints pulse with it every time his heartbeat. And lastly was the smell, the smell of blood, burned tires, seared asphalt and anesthetic. It made his stomach roll, he was wanted to throw up, he wanted to scream but the only thing that left his lips was a stream of blood and spit. Rolling off his cheeks and soaking his blond hair and the white lien he lay upon. He almost missed the suffocation, longed for the breathlessness and crushing heat, and the scent of motor oil and aftershave and Alfred, he missed it._

* * *

Arthur knew he wasn't one to procrastinate; he always prided himself with his excellent time management skills. But it seemed like these days a lot of things didn't get done, his answering machine was full of missed calls, his table overflowing with unanswered letters and his house was in a general state of mess. If it had been the old Arthur he would have been appalled by the mess, and he would have started on answering his messages and doing the laundry and dishes the moment he stepped into the house. But the old Arthur wasn't there anymore, and over the last two weeks, didn't seem to want to show up. The new Arthur didn't seem to really care about anything, just sitting at his table with a cup of cooling earl grey sitting untouched before him. His clothes were a mess, and so was his hair, when he no longer even tried to tame it.

But today was the day. He knew he could no longer put it off, and yet he didn't move and just sat there long after his drink stopped steaming. It was nearly noon before he stood again. His battered body protesting his every move, even three months in the hospital wasn't enough. The nurses and his friends and family had wanted him to stay longer, but he could no longer stand it there. He had to leave, to come back here. To do what he didn't know, but he knew that he could no longer stay in that place, it was just so alien and cold, but sometimes he preferred it to the familiarity of his own home. The couch with the dent in the middle, the extra chair at the table and the blue towel that still hung on its rack in the bathroom, all these things that caused a jolt of white hot agony through him every time. Yet he did nothing and just sat there every morning and stared at the empty chair, hoping it would become full again, just like his existence. But things remained empty, unchanged and Arthur was tired of it. The old Arthur wouldn't let himself wallow, he wouldn't allow his neat little house with its green trim and handkerchief garden to fall into a ruin as it had, but new Arthur seemed like he just wanted to sleep. He decided to compromise between the two.

He placed the tea cup and saucer in the sink and washed them slowly, the warm water splashing softly in the quiet kitchen. Putting them away in the cabinet he started up the stairs, his knees creaked with the action. Up the both flights and down a shadowed hall to the last door at the end, his bed room. He opened the door into the dark room, the lights were off and the curtains drawn. Arthur walked open and threw the windows open, airing out the sorrow that hung in the air like a fog. He turned and inspect the room, it was a mess. The bed unmade and the desk strewn with paper and the closet overflowing. He walked forward, stepping over the empty bottles and smashed frames, careful not to cut himself, until he stopped in front a pile of clothes, closet it was then.

* * *

It had taken him about an hour before he found the box. It was largish and blue and was tied with a white ribbon in a bow. Arthur stared at it, his breath trapped in his chest. His heart stopped for a moment, skipped a beat and started beating at twice its pace. He equally wanted to open it and throw it out the window, but Arthur was done with this new lackadaisical version of himself so he did what he would have not hesitated to three months ago. His hands betrayed him though, when they shook as he carefully lifted the lid off the box as if he were afraid demons lay within.

He had to stare for a moment before he knew what it was. The perfect convex surface was shining, throwing the lights from the open window back out, and lighting the brilliant sparkling emerald beneath. With shaking hands he lifted it out of the nest of white tissue paper it lay in, and gazed back at the object cradled in his palms. The visor was down so he gazed back at his own refection in the shatter resistant plastic as if were a mirror. A helmet. Arthur felt himself unconsciously reach forward to the card tucked in the paper even when as his mind raced and roared. He knew he should put it back in the box, close it and run back down the hall, down the stairs and out the door and never come back. But he had let all his demons out, and now they were going to haunt him.

The paper was cool and smooth and the seal parted easily under his nail. A card, one of those tacky one you get from the dollar store, overflowing with sentiment and glitter. Happy Birthday it proclaimed, and in some sort of horrified trance Arthur slowly opened it, and written in it was a short passage. The blue ink was smudged and the scrawl was crooked but he could still perfectly read it, and he wish he hadn't.

_Hey Artie, I bet you're real surprised. Even though you made me promise not to get you anything I wanted to give you this, (you couldn't even find it, could you? I am just that awesome at hiding things.) I know that even if I'm a hero I still can't protect you from everything, and so I want to make sure you are extra safe. I never want you to get hurt, ever, so happy birthday Arthur. _

_I love you. Alfred._

_P.s. I can't wait to see your face when you open this!_

Arthur felt his tears stream down his face, and he could hear them plop against the surface of the helmet. Curling in on himself he griped the helmet like it was the only thing holding him together as he slowly fell apart. All the sorrow and loneliness and regret just burst out, all the things he tried to suppress, the new Arthur he wanted to forget just flowed back out on the tide of his tears. He knew he was changed, forever. _He_ had changed him.

How long had this been here? How long was it hidden in the closet, waiting for Arthur to find it. Waiting to break his heat. But he had found it too late, three months to late. His birthday was the day after the accident, and now this present was useless. "That idiot," he gasped out between his sobs and Arthur felt himself fall to pieces, clutching the helmet like it was the only thing holding them together in this world of endless night. And it was.


End file.
